


being an account of the effects of poor city planning and intoxication

by noviembre



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noviembre/pseuds/noviembre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire generally considered himself fluent in the language of the streets, knowing their twists as well as he knew the taste of cheap wine, so it was with some embarrassment that he realized he had absolutely no idea where he had wound up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	being an account of the effects of poor city planning and intoxication

Paris was not a city friendly to outsiders. She lured them in with her siren’s song of lights and life, and then trapped them in winding streets and dead ends. Many a visitor found themself wandering the broken cobblestones for hours, certain that they were only a few minutes’ walk from their destinations. Parisians prided themselves on their ability to navigate the twisting maze of their mother city. 

Grantaire generally considered himself fluent in the language of the streets, knowing their twists as well as he knew the taste of cheap wine. He had spent more time wandering around while drunk than he had sober, so it was with some embarrassment that he realized he had absolutely no idea where he had wound up. He peered down the alleyway before him, considering the benefits of heading back the way he had been aimlessly walking. But his bottle was near empty, and there were no cafés behind him for some time. 

So he pressed onward, and emerged blinking into the sudden light of the square. On his right he recognized the door of a café with the sort of hazy familiarity of one who has been drunk at an establishment in the past, a feeling that Grantaire knew well. 

Stumbling into the café, he signaled to the woman serving the drinks to bring him another bottle. His long walk through the streets of Paris had left him needing to relieve himself, and he headed for a door in the back corner that seemed to him likely to contain the latrine. 

That was not, however, what he found at the end of the musty corridor. 

For a moment he stood blinking at the sight before him. He was not unfamiliar with the back rooms of French cafés, but usually they involved more women and cards and somewhat less of… this. 

What he was looking at, he could not say. The tables were covered with maps and pamphlets, though he was too drunk to make out the details. The room’s occupants were all men, of an age with Grantaire, and on the whole too well-dressed for such a setting. 

It appeared no one had heard the door open over their animated conversations. Grantaire leaned against the wall, unnoticed, and listened. Much of it seemed to be aimless philosophical discussion, and it wasn’t until he heard someone across the room cry, “Ah, Bahorel, you do not do Robespierre justice!” that he realized what he was witnessing. 

Grantaire had heard the whispers in the streets, the mutterings in the crowds. Certainly with the state of France as it was, he knew that there were those who agitated in secret for violent uprising. But he had not expected to stumble across a meeting of such would-be revolutionaries. 

It was no sooner than he came to this realization that he realized the room had suddenly quieted. But he was still unnoticed; instead, all eyes seemed to have turned to a man off to the side who had just risen from his seat. 

“Citizens,” the man began, and Grantaire was shattered.

He was a cynic, and comfortable in his cynicism. He knew the dregs of humanity well; on the whole, they were selfish and cowardly. Any progress forward would come slowly and grudgingly. Grantaire knew this, and considered himself content with such knowledge. 

But this stranger spoke, and suddenly Grantaire was lost. He saw the light of a dawn filled with hope glowing from the man’s eyes—from his very soul—and Grantaire was gripped with the desire to see the future this man saw. This golden stranger was passion embodied, he was Apollo incarnate, he was the future that his words described. 

Grantaire knew this future would not come to pass, and for the first time his soul ached at his cynicism. The dark places in his mind hated this stranger for making him want something impossible. If ignorance was bliss, then the folly of his bleak wisdom was this: that he saw only darkness where this man tried to shine light. 

This stranger spoke of the People who would be their saviors, and the back room filled with applause as he finished. Grantaire was seized by a fierce passion—he did not know if it was anger or desire—and he laughed bitterly.

“And what would you know of the people, Monsieur?”

The students startled at his presence, a few half-rising towards him. But he was undeterred, and continued:

“The sun in all its brightness is blinded to the movements of the people below. You say they will fight for liberty. I have spent my life among the people you speak of—on a good day, I would even consider myself one of them—and do you know what I have seen men fight for? For wine, for sport, for the touch of a woman. France is a cold mistress, and men’s passions are roused by warmer beds.”

He was flying. The weight of the man’s eyes on him was more intoxicating than any alcohol, and he spoke with a passion long-absent from his words. Later, he would be unable to tell what he had said. 

“In this world and the world you speak of to come, men will want wine and they will want women. Liberty? Ha! Here is a revolution they will fight for. Free wine and free love!”

There was stunned silence in the room. A man with a broken nose seemed ready to applaud, but Grantaire’s focus was on the golden man who stared at him. There was some strong emotion in his face; what it was Grantaire could not say. 

After a moment, he remembered why he had wound up in this room in the first place. Raising his empty bottle in a mocking salute, he stumbled back into the hallway to finally find that damned latrine. His thoughts remained in the back room with the golden stranger. 

He stayed in the front of the Musain for several hours, half-hoping and half-dreading the reemergence of the students. His concerns were in vain, however, as it appeared they had a back entrance to their room. Just as he was debating the merits of trying to go home versus passing out drunk in his chair, a young man approached him. 

“That was some performance,” he said with a grin. “I have never seen Enjolras at a loss for words like that! I hope to see you among us some other time, my friend.”

Grantaire said nothing, and the man clasped his shoulder and left. His thoughts were swirling, finally attaching themselves to the name that had turned him inside out. 

_Enjolras._

Grantaire knew that nothing would keep him from returning. This man’s presence was more intoxicating than wine itself, and Grantaire was, after all, a drunk of the first-order.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I imagine this taking place 2-3 years before we first encounter the characters in the brick.
> 
> 2\. Although I have not personally been lost in 19th century Paris, it's true that it used to be laid out a lot differently than it is today. In fact, the redesign of the city under Napoleon III was done so in a way to prevent uprisings like the June Rebellion. If you're as excessively nerdy as I am, you can read more about it here: http://www.foreignpolicy.com/articles/2013/01/03/the_songs_of_angry_men


End file.
